


(altered) (white sphere )

by Archistratego



Series: (///)(white///) [3]
Category: Alien Series, Alien: Covenant, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn - Timothy Zahn
Genre: Gen, I'm Bad At Tagging, M/M, Unconventional POV, by which i still mean xenomorph pov, implied crushes and pinning, intentional lack of capital letters, intentional misuse of grammar, sort of au crossover dumpster fire, this is entirely self-indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:46:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archistratego/pseuds/Archistratego
Summary: eli vanto knows he is going to die. there is a bone deep certainty being written in the marrow of his bones as his future unfolds — it coils inside him and it bites with pearly white teeth.Chronologically takes place after (blank) (white space) and before (indistinct)(white noise); how Eli sleeps, cocooned inside a Xenomorph's nest and Thrawn wakes, in a galaxy far, far away.





	(altered) (white sphere )

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for: Thrawn(novel) and Alien Covenant. I'm taking liberties with both Star Wars and Alien canon. Thank you to [galahd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galahd) for reading through this mess!

eli vanto knows he is going to die. there is a bone deep certainty being written in the marrow of his bones as his future unfolds — it coils inside him and it bites with pearly white teeth. his consciousness swims in and out, drawn and pulled by the tide among the vast stars. and his thoughts are like an expanding supernova, ever reaching outward in an attempt to reach the darkest corners (there is nothing but more darkness).

there is a crooning sound, between purr and whisper, and oh — oh — eli wants to die right now, because as his consciousness lands on shore and crawls its way into lucidity, he can smell the acrid tang of death. no blaster, no vibroblades, not even his innocuous pocket knife is within reach, he has no tools to fight.

death wears an elongated skull, smooth and eyeless, mouth within mouth extended: acidic scented, fanged, terrifying.

eli holds still.

something touches his cheek (eli can’t see it’s too close too close too close and his mind is swirling into panic and the urge to cringe away even though he is trapped beneath layers of this secretion that is beginning to burn burn burn).

his panic is a meteor shower striking his vulnerable points. he holds still.

his consciousness does not.

his body stops.

  


* * *

  


thudthudthudthud. footsteps on broken floors. metal.

their creator’s words, a rising chorus: ozymandias david king of kings: from ash to bone.

their thoughts scattered beneath instinct: they are a virus: spread and spread and spread.

layers: layers: layers

meticulous evolution. inside a vast ship they slept and grew after david spat them out like cronus and his ill fated children. they only knew the white noise.

one host is as good as any other; human organisms though — warmwarmwarmwarm.

  


* * *

  


eli vanto's memories carry simplicity; they are neither cracked nor painful, stacked inside his mind wrapped neatly by the emotions colouring the past. they are not perfect, dents and cracks apparent in the places where eli's heart had ached or his temper had burnt bright and quick before being vanquished with military precision.

there are secrets within the demarcated black corners that eli clung to fiercely. those aren't even _his_ secrets, just the ones he safeguards for others: the path that led thrawn to the death star project, the coordinates of the chiss, the slaves, corruption, a wrongness festering in the upper levels of coruscant.

however, eli himself has little to hide, and what he does is, for the most part, in the 'oblivious' pile: conflicting loyalties, increasing doubts, unspoken nostalgia and yearnings.

the storm makes his mind feel permeable, memories sneaking in and out without permission. his own slip without returning; it feels like being hollowed out yet remaining functional.

  


* * *

  


drip. drop. drip.

  


* * *

  


eli vanto made many choices or rather, had many choices made for him by meddling aliens. his choice to be here now, trapped in this moment with death ready to feast on the scraps of his soul, was his own.

he sort of, maybe, kind of, regrets it. a shorter lifespan in exchange for thrawn’s teachings, serving a greater cause and travelling into the unknown regions and further still — further than the empire could ever reach.

the universe for eli is blue and glaring red — the colours of the chiss, not the black and blood red of the empire. (at least while he draws raspy breaths that indicate a beating heart).

there are mysteries waiting to be unravelled and there is one in particular he still needs to solve: made of white, blue and red. the faint impressions of their years together feel like a flickering light within a black hole (an impossibility that defies the laws of space). is that not a good definition of thrawn though? achieving victories in the face of the unexpected with all odds against. 

back then, eli liked to watch the small telltale signs that he had learnt to perceive, acknowledging that beneath thrawn’s scrutiny he had felt glass transparent. frail enough that pressing a finger down would cause cracks to appear threatening to spill eli’s carefully contained feelings.

that was a long time ago, beneath the white noise of chimaera’s engines. those feelings had metamorphosed from sand to glass, then back again when eli left. sand did not break like glass, it just gathered — stacking constantly when eli wasn’t looking; before long he began to drown and had to sweep it away. only for the pattern to repeat itself.

eli wonders if his feelings will erode completely over time. 

he imagines what his file will say: vanto, eli. KIA. perhaps MIA if they never find his body. his legacy an empty coffin with closed lid, snow gathering on top, an outline of an impassive thrawn watching — 

(eli doesn’t want to disappoint him and faced with this prospect, under the stare of red —)

among the murkiness of his mind there is one distinct regret that makes fighting for his life imperative. 

he wants to see thrawn again.

not this murky, traced memory but the real thrawn.

half an hour and eli’s consciousness drifts ashore once more spurred on by the wants and the wishes and the _what ifs_ that beckon.

_vanto vanto vanto wake up_

his body complies; lips curving weakly around a name.

  


* * *

  


just fall. quietly.

  


* * *

  


pull yourself piece by piece

  


* * *

  


across, on a sleepy star destroyer, thrawn wakes. the wide expanse of space and all it's infinite possibilities outside the durasteel hull of the ship. he thinks of his former aide traipsing the corridors of a chiss star destroyer. 

(it is a difficult thought that won’t allow itself to be dissected cleanly; it clamours and begs for emotions — without them it is a stale picture, lacking and incomplete. however, with them it becomes unbearably bright. it becomes a wild, temperamental thing that spins out of control making his chest ache faintly, heartbeat whispering: eli, eli, eli)

would he hold a place at some other admiral’s side? perhaps he had finally follow through on his intentions to go down the supply track— 

no. the eli that had left the empire had still been _young_ but the uncertainties first found within him were finally dissipating in order to leave behind the formidable officer thrawn had always seen.

were those doubts finally gone now?

maybe. 

he raises with the same daily efficiency and checks his datapad putting eli vanto’s fate out of his mind. the universe does not stop simply because eli is absent from the known galaxy.

lothal requires his attention. it will be necessary to leave the chimaera in capable hands while he travels planet side. 

carefully stored in the depths of his desk drawer lies a recording; its exact date is difficult to pinpoint in relation to the calendar kept by both the empire and the ascendancy. a magnetic tape, encased in plastic and spooled in two equal parts; the information stored is grainy, like gravel dragged across concrete to the point of distortion. only a few words can be made out.

[co//ven//ant, reportin//g solar flare/// origae-6. //// se——code, 31564-F.]

**Author's Note:**

> If you've made it this far, thank you for putting up with my writing! There is one final part planned for this series but it may be several chapters, depending on where it goes. IDEAS ARE HERE, EXECUTING THEM IS HARD.


End file.
